The Dead and the Beautiful (24 page)

“Look, I'm trying to help Alison, and I know for a fact that she's not being totally honest with me. Which means she's not being totally honest with Jeremy. I'm afraid this could be the end of their relationship.”

Ellen sighed. “We were at Jeremy's last fall. November, maybe. He had that backyard barbeque.”

“Right. His annual
Turkey Day Is Almost Here
party.”

“Alison and I were just chatting in the kitchen while she tossed a salad. She asked me if I could recommend a discreet caterer. She said something about losing hers.”

Nikki made a face. “A discreet caterer? What for? Alison didn't have a party last fall. Certainly not one she needed a caterer for.”

Ellen shrugged. “I'm not sure what she meant. But I'm sure that's what she said. She needed a
discreet caterer.
”

A discreet caterer.
Nikki was still mulling that over when she arrived at Marshall's that evening.

Chapter 24

N
ikki arrived at Marshall's early, in her Prius, and parked beside a Maserati she didn't recognize. The Fab Four and their spouses, she was sure, would come in limos. As she walked up the driveway to the house, she took in its massive elegance. It was a 12,000 square foot Neoclassical with a dramatic two-story marble entry. The monument to Marshall's box-office stardom was lit up by spotlights and featured multiple fountains that were arranged all over the finely trimmed front lawn (thanks to Jorge & Son). The statuary was life-size: Roman and Greek replicas.

The house had seven bedrooms and ten baths, a library, a formal dining room that seated twenty-four, a gourmet kitchen, and a master suite that included a marble bath with a sauna. Outside, there was a pool, a spa, an outdoor kitchen, two open cabanas, a tennis court, and a bocce court, among additional amenities. Marshall's partner, Rob, thought it was ridiculous that one man should own such a house. He'd grown up with a mother and father and six siblings in a single-story, three-bedroom house. He thought Marshall's place was more like a mausoleum than a home. And Marshall didn't like it any better. He bought it as an investment, and to satisfy his agent and his publicist. It was all part of his movie-star, heterosexual image. He didn't like the house, said he was lonely there, and only stayed overnight when he had to. Most nights he slept in the cozy two-bedroom bungalow next door to Nikki, with Rob.

Before Nikki could ring the doorbell, which sounded more like a door gong, the front door opened. A gentleman in a tux greeted her. “Good evening, Ms. Harper. Shall I have your car parked?”

“Parked it myself, Elgin.” She walked into the cavernous open hall; her voice seemed to echo off the Carrara marble floor. “You look nice this evening.”

He smoothed his finely pressed white shirt. “Thank you.” Elgin ran the monstrosity of a house for Marshall and did a superb job, but more importantly, he was devoted to keeping his boss's secret. Nikki would have trusted the guy with her life; Marshall did.

“Would you care for a cocktail? We're serving in the library.”

“Nikki!”

She looked up to see Marshall coming down the white marble staircase that was broad enough to drive a Roman chariot down. He was dressed in a black Armani tux and was fiddling with a diamond cuff link.

“Hey.” She smiled, tickled to see him. She had so much to tell him.

“You look gorgeous,” he called. “I love you in that dress.”

She cut her eyes at him. She was wearing a fifties vintage teal Ceil Chapman dress. It had a scooped neckline and teal bugle beads in swirled patterns. Her favorite part of the sheath dress was the godet at the hem in back; she'd bought the dress for the flirty little kick pleat. “Are you making fun of me? You know I like to get my money out of a dress.”

“They don't call you Victoria Bordeaux's daughter for nuthin',” he teased with a wink.

Both Victoria and Nikki were known, in the celebrity world, for their habitual reuse of gowns, something rarely done in Hollywood. Victoria thought nothing of appearing in public in the same dress three times in the same year; she thought it was a waste to wear a dress once and then donate it, sell it, or let it sit in a closet. And while Nikki had more money than she knew what to do with because her father had left her a fortune, she was as
thrifty
as her mother. Besides, when she bought a dress or a gown that she loved, she wanted to wear it again.

“Let me see.” He took her hand and she twirled for him on her three-inch silk heels. “Gorgeous,” he repeated. “I love the French twist. And the new bangs.”

“Fringe.”
Nikki patted her updo, which she had, of course, done herself. “Thanks.”

“You ready?” He offered his elbow. “You know who you're going to ask what?”

She looked at him. “Are you suggesting I'm going to interrogate your guests?” She pretended to be shocked.

“Well, I certainly hope you're going to. That was the point of this party, wasn't it?” He led her down the hall toward the library.

He'd just had a new Crestron system installed in the house. It featured security, phone, lighting, and audio control throughout the house by the means of monitor screens and touch pads. Classical music—Bach—played softly in all the rooms.

“I don't,” she hemmed. “Mostly I think I just want to watch them. See how they all behave.”

“So you're sure one of the Fab Four killed Ryan?”

“No, I'm not
sure
. I just have a feeling. But it could be one of the spouses.”

“Ooh. I like that idea. Do tell.”

“Later. They'll be here any second. Lex Bronson coming, too?”

“Oh, he'll be here. I think he thinks I'm looking for a new agent.” They walked into the library.

Nikki was surprised to see that she wasn't the first guest to arrive. Lieutenant Detective Tom Dombrowski turned to them, a book in his hand.

“Good evening.” He was dressed in a tuxedo; tailored, not off the rack. Brunello Cucinelli.

Nikki couldn't help herself. She laughed out loud. “You invited
him
?” she asked, looking at Marshall. “You plan on having the kind of cocktail party that requires police protection?”

Marshall's mouth twitched with a smile. “For your information, I actually know Tom outside of the police world.”

“Good to see you, too, Nikki.” Dombrowski returned the book to its place. “You've got a great collection here, Marshall. Eclectic. The
Iliad
of Homer and
Odyssey
of Homer, first edition, folio issues, London, 1715, Thomas Hardy's works bound by Rivière & Son.
And,
signed, limited first editions of Stephen King's
Dark Tower
books, one to seven.”

Marshall looked at Nikki, then back at Dombrowski and laughed. “I have to confess, I'm not much of a reader. When I bought the house, Nikki said I had to fill the library with books. Apparently, I bought books.”

Dombrowski turned to Nikki. “Flying solo tonight?”

“Jeremy's out of town. A weekend with the kids.”

“So, the gossip blog I read this morning is not to be believed? You and Dr. Fitzpatrick haven't broken up over the fact that his sister is a murderess?”

“What blog?” she asked, not sure if he was serious or not.

“Ooh, I read that, too,” Marshall said.

Nikki rolled her eyes.

The doorbell rang . . . gonged. All three of them looked in the direction of the front of the house.

“If you'll excuse me.” Marshall gave his best movie-star smile. “I have guests to greet. Have some champagne, kids.” He indicated a waiter standing unobtrusively in the corner of the room. “Enjoy yourselves!”

Nikki shook her head as Marshall walked away, laughing to himself, she was sure. She waited until he was gone to speak to Dombrowski. “So how
did
you get an invitation?” she whispered. “And what are you doing here?”

“As Marshall said, we know each other outside law enforcement.”

She frowned. “Right. And you don't think your presence here isn't going to be a little
conspicuous
? Like some kind of Agatha Christie scene?”

“I don't know what you're talking about. Marshall and I are friends. He invited me to his home.”

There was something in his tone of voice . . . She studied him for a second. “Wait. You're saying you're here as a friend, but . . . You know she didn't do it, don't you?”

“Would you like a glass of champagne?” he asked.

He did know Alison didn't do it! A part of her wanted to jump in the air (something difficult to do in three-inch heels) and give a little yippee. She was right and he knew she was right. Did he also suspect Ryan's group of friends? But a part of her wanted to snap at him—because he didn't think Alison did it. Yet, the charges hadn't been dropped.

“You want to tell me what you know?” she whispered.

“You want to tell me what
you
know?”

She crossed her arms. “You going to have the charges dropped against Alison?”

“No reason to do that. She's still our prime suspect.”

There were voices now coming from the front hall. Feminine laugher. Nikki recognized Betsy's voice. Diara's. She moved to face the door, standing beside Dombrowski. Waiting, apprehensively. “Feel a little like James Bond tonight?” she whispered.

He smiled.

And suddenly, there were twenty people in the library, all talking at once. The Disney Fab Four were there, and their spouses, minus Ryan, of course. Lex Bronson was there, Marshall's agent, Angel's agent, and their dates or spouses. Marshall's publicist. Introductions were being made. Dombrowski jumped right in, as if he spent every evening rubbing elbows with celebrities.

Watching him, Nikki was intrigued.
Who are you?
she wondered. Maybe she should take him up on that drink he once offered. Then she felt guilty. She cared for Jeremy. She maybe even loved him. She didn't know. And she certainly didn't know where they stood right now.

But she didn't have time for personal reflection right now.

Nikki put on
the smile
and approached her first victims. Betsy and Hazel were standing together chatting. “Betsy, Hazel. So nice to see you.”

This time, Hazel's smile was wary. Something had changed since Nikki saw them the previous day at that pub.

“Nice to see you,” Hazel said, sounding as awkward as she was acting. She was wearing her hair down, in a forties style with a side part, tucked behind one ear. A cute, black dress and towering black Christian Louboutin heels.

“Marshall's house is lovely,” Betsy said. White cocktail dress, silver Christian Louboutin heels.

“Did you help him buy it?” Betsy asked.

“I did. It had been on the market for a while. I think it's turning out to be a good investment.”

“Ladies, I think you know Tom.” Marshall stepped between Betsy and Hazel with Tom in tow.

“How are you, Mrs. Munro? Mrs. Gomez? It's nice to see you in more pleasant circumstances.”

Betsy turned to Nikki. “The detective interviewed us. You know, after Ryan . . . died.”

“If you'll excuse me,” Marshall said. “My publicist is waving me down.” He walked away.

Nikki met Dombrowski's gaze. “So, Hazel,” she said, shifting her attention. “How was your shopping trip?” Again, she looked at the detective. “We ran into each other at The Grove yesterday, Hazel and Betsy and I.”

“Ah,” Dombrowski said. He had a lowball glass in his hand.

Single malt Scotch?
Nikki wondered. Did that surprise her? It didn't.

“We had a great time. We always do,” Hazel said, glancing over her shoulder at someone.

“And the pub was nice.”

“Yeah, too bad your boyfriend couldn't join you.” Again, Hazel.

“Too bad,” Dombrowski echoed.

“Champagne?” Angel Gomez joined the group, a flute in each hand.

“Ooh, thanks.” Hazel accepted a glass.

“Thanks,” his wife said.

“Is this house over the top or what?” Angel asked. His words were slightly slurred.

Had he been drinking before he arrived?

“Bordering on obnoxious,” Angel went on, grabbing another glass of champagne as a waiter went by. “One for you, Nikki?”

“No, thanks.”

“I guess this is what happens when you have too much money,” Angel went on.

He'd definitely been drinking.

“Seems rather unkind to criticize your host while you're drinking his champagne, doesn't it?” Dombrowski said.

Angel looked at him. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Hazel, at least, had the good sense to squirm a little. Betsy just looked at Dombrowski with distaste.

“An invited guest, the same as you.” Dombrowski smiled, but there was something behind his smile. Nikki liked it. Not a threat, just . . . a warning.

“You don't belong here,” Angel went on, taking a step closer to the detective, who was taller and broader shouldered than the singer. “You don't belong with people like us. In places like this.”

“Angel,” Betsy said softly. She rested her hand on her husband's arm, but he pushed her away. Hard.

Is this a man who could wrap a dog leash around his friend's neck and strangle him?
Nikki wondered.
Possibly.

“Angel.” Marshall was back again. He smiled at his drunken guest. “I know you know Tom as the detective who investigated Ryan's death, but did you know his mother is a Tisch?”

Nikki knew her eyes got big. She met Dombrowski's gaze. His blue eyes were twinkling. His suits
were
tailored. And if she was a guessing girl, she'd guess that the Maserati in the driveway was his.

“Tisch?” Angel scoffed.

“I'm really sorry,” Betsy murmured. “He's . . . had a long week.”

“Loews Corporation,” Marshall said. “You know, CBS, Loews theaters.”

Angel stared at Dombrowski. “You mean he's rich?”

“Something like that.” Marshall smiled. “Tom, I have a book I want to show you. Some kind of rare edition.”

“Excuse me.” Dombrowski met Nikki's gaze for a split second, then walked away.

Betsy led Hazel away to find an hors d'oeuvre. Which left Nikki standing alone with Angel. She wondered if Dombrowski was jealous. Was he watching them?